Charles Sheffield

The bad thing about being a world-class worrier was that being right was worse than being wrong.

The leaders of the Legion of Argos were out-of-this-world mad. Rigid in outlook, intolerant of minor differences. In other centuries they would have led the Inquisition, tortured the heretics, burned the witches.

“Could it wipe out life on Earth?”

“Oh, I very much doubt that. Single-celled and oceanic forms will presumably survive. But it might make life impossible for humans.”

“Actually, that tends to be my primary concern. Sponges and oysters will have to take care of themselves.”

More and more, she felt certain that the members of the Legion of Argos from the top down were mental cases. Prophecies, penances, holy cleansings, arbitrary murders to settle grievances, ethnic entry requirements, guns everywhere, regimented behavior, visitors who were effectively prisoners—all the signs of a paramilitary religious cult.

You pursue progress, even if you suspect that it is an illusion.

Humans were inexplicable only if you assumed that they were logical.

When you have died once, you become most reluctant to do so again.

“Any other instructions?”

“Not without breaking one of my own golden rules. In an unpredictable situation, the man or woman on the spot should make the decisions, not the general sitting on his ass a million miles away from the action.”

A thousand friends have less weight than a single enemy.

The game never ended. If Sol were guaranteed to go nova tomorrow, today she would hear from lobbyists for sunscreen.

When hard times come to the party, dignity is one of the first guests to leave.

“He was acquitted; he must have been.”

“Right. Good lawyer, tainted evidence. But that doesn’t mean he was innocent.”